


Rewrite Icarus

by chantefable



Series: Beltane Collection [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Curse Breaking, Gringotts Wizarding Bank, Jewelry, M/M, Magic, Magical Artifacts, Open Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-29
Updated: 2011-05-29
Packaged: 2018-03-22 16:56:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3736549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chantefable/pseuds/chantefable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gringotts Curse-Breaker Draco Malfoy encounters the famous cursed necklace, the Jewels of May.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rewrite Icarus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [megyal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/megyal/gifts).



> Title from Ilse Bendorf's poem "Catch a Body": "We can rewrite Icarus, flame-resistant feathers, wax that won't melt, I mean it, I'll draw up a prototype right now, that burning ball of orange won't stop us, it'll be everything we dream the morning after, even if we fall into the sea — we are boats, remember?".

_We are islands all of us,_  
but we are also boats, our secrets flares,  
pyrotechnic devices by which we signal  
there's someone in here we're still alive! 

_Ilse Bendorf, "Catch a Body"._

Everyone has heard of Severus Snape, a legendary spy and hero of two Voldemort Wars. Severus Snape is well-placed by his astounding achievements, high connections, and brilliance. People know of him, admire him, and generally have the presence of mind to avoid boring him with idle chatter or their tiresome company.

This afternoon, when Severus Snape walks into Draco Malfoy's reasonably modest office at Level Three, Gringotts Bank, it warms Draco's heart that Severus has graced him with his illustrious presence not just for pleasant conversation (although the man's voice, raspy and low, and heavily sweet like crumbled caramel, is always a delight in and of itself), or for a quick, hard fuck atop Draco's sturdy, ornate desk, with the rustle of papers falling down to the floor being drowned out by laboured breathing and the slapping of sweaty skin against sweaty skin (although that _is_ the first thing they get out of the way, to avoid being distracted with anticipation later on): it is because something is afoot.

Something has been found.

Everyone has heard of Severus Snape, but only a few chosen Curse-Breakers and Aurors (and very, very unfortunate heirs and collectors) have heard of the Jewels of May.

Draco has.

The Jewels of May. A necklace like a string of bonfires, always slightly warm to the touch and radiant to behold.

It is really quite beautiful. Severus eyes the glass case the bank's Orphaned Vaults and Unsolicited Heirlooms Squad has brought into Draco's heavily warded office not two hours prior, and warily sits down in the empire-style visitor's chair before giving Draco an affirmative nod.

Now, with a confirmation, Draco may begin. It's a rare opportunity, and he finds himself brimming with excitement as he lifts the lid of the case (although those could be residual endorphins). Draco can almost taste it at the back of his throat, the dark, sweet thrill of exploration and appreciation.

This is going to be something wonderful, and it is under Draco's control.

Severus gives Draco a wry smile, his mouth curving upwards, like they are sharing an exciting and vaguely amusing secret.

Draco feels his mouth stretch in an answering grin and casts an exploratory spell at the necklace.

The Jewels of May, abruptly resurfacing again after decades. Found in a supposedly empty Gringotts vault.

It is a shocking discovery and one best kept under wraps, which means that probably half the town is abuzz with it right now.

Severus Snape, being who he is, is well aware that there are no secrets in wizarding London about people's private lives. Everything else may be ignored, but the intimate details are of utmost interest to all and sundry. Why would people talk about anything else when furtive glances and creaking bedsprings make such wonderful conversation? And therefore Severus cannot be unaware that probably everyone must know of his relationship with Draco. Whatever it is.

It doesn't bother him as much as it could, Draco thinks. Severus appears to be completely unperturbed by the possibility of gossip or stirrings of public opinion. Perhaps it is this calm indifference that ensures the universal acceptance of their long-term association. Everyone knows, and nobody cares. 

As for Draco himself, it might be bewildering how little thought he gives to public opinion now that he is sure that his livelihood, his job – both his occupation and his means of survival – will not be affected by it. The Goblins value him, and the rest matters very little. His position is steady, secure, and Draco finds the monotony of Curse-Breaking at Gringotts (lethal curses every day, the comfortable boredom of magical fatality) and the deep, confident companionship he shares with Severus soothing.

It's peaceful. It's good.

It's a dull life with everything in its proper place. There are things to do, and there's a place for that. (Gringotts.) There are things to feel, and there's a person for that. (Severus.) 

Draco appreciates that. It's like at some point – after the war, after the trials, after everything – he began to heal and never really stopped. His heart is being stitched together, constantly. The measured, predictable pace of his life is giving him strength he knows he didn't have before. Every day is just like the previous one, another stitch, another fortifying breath.

The Jewels of May are a challenge. A way for Draco to learn, to improve himself. Another stitch on his heart.

Once Severus has left, throwing a casual warning to be careful over his shoulder along with a dinner invitation, Draco does not let his mind linger on the memory of Severus' strong arms and thighs pinning him down, or of Severus' trimmed beard roughly scratching the tender skin at the back of Draco's neck. He examines the stones, noting their tiny imperfections (which only increase their value). He concentrates and reaches for the seemingly dormant magic underneath. (It is cunning, Draco can tell already. It is sly and strong.)

How fortunate that Severus was able to recognise the necklace from the days it had been in the Rowles' possession. Draco is sure he can feel it bristle angrily under his curious fingertips. Hot-tempered, all flame and fury. It did not want to be recognised, Draco is sure of it. It would have preferred to be deemed harmless, pretty, cool and demure. It does its best to pretend now, curling shyly in Draco's palm as he reaches for a stack of parchment – archive diagrams and specifications. Oh, Draco knows its identity, but the bloody necklace is still determined to try its very best to deceive him. 

Draco cannot help but admire the way it slips through his fingers, almost coyly, silently begging for a neck to wrap itself around.

It. Them. The Jewels of May.

Draco finds their gleam distracting and soothing, as it is doubtless meant to be.

Draco puts the necklace aside for a moment, ignoring the way it beckons him, its stone-clad warmth slithering through his consciousness. He skim-reads the account of the previous owner's death instead.

Hypsipyle Archambault, born Hypsipyle Fullerlove. Draco looks at her face, tense and young on the magical lithograph. Her left hand is buried in her dark curls spilling over her bare shoulders; her right hand is placed over her heart, long thin fingers resting claw-like over the Jewels of May as if they were her most cherished possession.

Perhaps they were.

Draco reaches for another sheet of parchment, his elbow brushing the necklace accidentally. The haunted, withdrawn woman had her likeness made two months after her husband's death. Her eyes burn with a fire that matches the glimmer of the stones. On the lithograph, they look like tears, like happiness crystallised. They become her.

Draco checks the archive papers again. Mrs Archambault died three years after the likeness was made. Ten years ago.

Still, she looks very much alive in the picture, eerily careworn and carefree at the same time. Like she has lived a little too much. The Jewels are firmly in place around her neck, anchoring her in time. If Draco squints a little, he can almost believe that they are pulsing, alive, whereas the vein in Mrs Archambault's neck is completely still.

But, by Merlin, they become her. Draco simply cannot imagine these stones, which practically ooze the energy of life and the essence of timeless stars, not complementing someone.

Unbidden, but not unwelcome, an image of Severus with the Jewels of May around his neck comes to Draco's mind. Perhaps Severus shirtless. These days, now that Severus' shoulders are a little bit wider and more stooped from leading the quiet life of comfort, his middle softer than in the days when Draco was a reckless, stranded whelp, Draco enjoys his body much more. He loves the sight and feel of Severus bare-chested, his skin pale and dry to the touch. The Jewels would be resting comfortably atop Severus' sharp clavicles, and if Draco touched them, they would be warm and intoxicating. 

Warm and intoxicating, just like Severus' mouth feels under Draco's greedy fingers every time he traces Severus' lips and pushes inside. Warm and intoxicating, just like the feel of Severus' back when Draco runs his sweaty palms all over it, tight, ropey muscle under salty, scarred skin. Warm and intoxicating, like the vicious clench of Severus' arse around Draco's cock.

Warm and intoxicating, like the sound of Severus' dark, raspy voice crawling up Draco's spine as they play a game of wizard chess by the fire.

It makes Draco's blood flow freely and his head spin with the giddy confidence of a madman rushing to meet the Sun.

Is it never-ending seduction or the most stable relationship he has ever had?

He treasures it fiercely. Even though Draco would not dare to put the magic between them into hard, irrevocable words, it is the thing he prizes the most. (It is his point of balance, part of what makes Draco who he is.)

He locks the sounds of Severus' moans inside his heart to keep them safe, the most precious secret of the universe. Unrestrained, scorching. _His_.

Flustered, Draco reaches for the necklace again, a worry at the back of his mind as the Jewels' magic attempts to coil its dark tendrils around his wrists. Not good enough. Draco shakes off these unwanted bracelets, though not without effort. 

'No need to shy away from me,' Draco thinks, carefully casting another spell. 'We are just getting to know each other. I am reading you, and you are reading me.'

The necklace glints mischievously, as if it were merely a handsome thing and not a mysterious piece of enchanted jewellery whose twenty-seven previous owners ended up dead. The worry Draco feels intensifies irrationally, seeping into the muscles of his shoulders and back; his jaw clenches. He cannot pin down the reason for his discomfort.

Of course, he knows it is the necklace, probing him like a particularly interesting bug, but –

Draco bites his lip, dread and desire warring in him. Oh, bloody Merlin and Morgan and Mordred in a cauldron of boiling oil. Draco very much resents the way the damn stones keep pulling up his innermost thoughts and feelings. Now that it has begun, Draco cannot shake it off – he is not under a spell, it is just a mild suggestion, the bloody Jewels be damned, but oh, he would be so right to be worried, in fact, he is worried, how on earth was he so excited by the appearance of the Jewels that he had not thought of it before? 

Draco slams his palm against the table in disgust. 

Of course, now that they have discovered a potentially homicidal piece of jewellery hiding at Gringotts – the Kneazle is probably out of the bag by now – the Aurors are going to be on it.

Will they swarm the place like busy, malicious bees?

No, they will not.

One Potter will suffice.

With a tortured groan, Draco buries his flushed face in his palms. 

He knows it. He is sure of it.

Potter is coming. Again.

Potter, Potter, Potter, oh, it had been such a lovely day before Draco remembered him. He clenches his fists and glares at the Jewels for reminding him of Potter.

The Jewels utterly fail at looking innocent, but they pull off hot and colourful quite well. Draco cannot bring himself to be mad at them even as they shine just a little bit brighter and tug at his memory, bringing forward Potter, Potter, Potter in this office, Potter at Gringotts, Potter haunting Draco as a particularly bratty spectre in knee-length dragon boots.

Potter.

Draco presses his palms in his eye sockets and breathes slowly.

Yes, Potter is dressed in very expensive, very nice clothes these days, clothes that scream underprivileged orphan with too much money and ambition busy compensating for just about anything.

(Draco feels his nerve endings stir, and it is an alien feeling, like someone else's laughter resonating within him.)

Potter.

Draco does not _like_ thinking about him all, but the Jewels lap it up.

Potter. His eyes are green and hot behind the discreet golden frames he favours. Potter's gaze is dangerous and sharp; more often than not, it feels like he's twisting a curved dagger in Draco's insides. 

Draco avoids making eye contact when Potter comes with an inspection. (The Ministry does worry about bank security more than it should, or rather, more than it would have if some of the more outrageous conspiracy theories printed in _The Quibbler_ hadn't been true.) 

No, Draco does not like the way Potter watches him, like a starving savage. It's not like Potter _is_ starving. He is well-settled, well-known, well-loved. 

What a bloody understatement.

Draco sighs and reaches for his enchanted monocle. His weary eyes are fixed on the teasing edges of the stones; his thoughts are fixed on the insufferable person who will invariably burst into Draco's office and wish to know whose necks those stones had adorned, whose heartbeats they had quelled, and how in hell have they appeared in Gringotts all of a sudden.

Potter. There is an air of entitlement about him that Draco finds more than a little vulgar. The way he acts, his demeanour, those looks – it's all like he _needs_ something from Draco. Like he _demands_ it. Oh, what the hell, he comes to Gringotts and bloody _clamours_ for it. Everything, Draco's time, Draco's attention, Draco's thoughts and opinions, Draco's spit in his mouth, Potter must have it all.

Draco twists the Jewels of May in his hands, the stones growing hotter and pricking his fingers like tiny suns. The necklace is ablaze, the stories are true, but the magic behind it is still a mystery. The strange fire creeps over his skin. Draco's cheeks grow hot; it burns, though he has nothing to be ashamed of, really, but it burns – warmth spreading through his fingers, through his face, his entire body flushing with the memory of himself, younger, much younger, touching his cock at night and thinking about Potter's stupid face and stupid, scrawny frame. Draco sighs. No shame, no regrets, he doubts it ever really was a secret, but he never expected to end up where he is now, with Potter haunting him with audits and reports and security checks, with bratty, greedy Potter invading Draco's space and thoughts and _wanting_ Draco so shamelessly.

There is no rational explanation for that. Surely there isn't.

Potter always wants to talk, but by now Draco is convinced that he simply doesn't know how it's done. Potter is always either prying information out of Draco, or babbling in Aurorspeak – he could be speaking Troll for all Draco cares about Auror procedures and codes and directives! But, oh, Potter is always keen on lecturing Draco, Potter is entranced by the sound of his own voice. His voice is low, soft, judging, sweeter than treacle, and it elicits a nauseatingly primal response from Draco.

Potter always leans in too close, his woodsy aftershave stealing its way into Draco's nostrils. Always brushes past Draco with no respect to personal space, as if it were normal – as if there should be no boundaries between them. Between any two people. It angers Draco more than it is prudent to show.

Sometimes they argue for hours on end. 

It's either Potter demanding their security system becomes more transparent – more lax – or Draco opposing putting Hit Wizards in Gringotts. It's either Potter shaking forms on the quotas of protective Dark spells allowed for the vaults or Draco attempting to shake off that shameless bureaucratic vampire. It's all push and pull. It's absurd and exhausting. When Potter sits in the visitor's chair in Draco's office, all bouncy arrogance, and goes on and on about how Draco fails to comply with his demands, Draco just wants to bang his head against his rosewood desk, and scream, and strangle Potter with his bare hands, in no particular order. Potter loves it.

Often, they fuck.

When Potter nuzzles his thighs and buries his nose in the small thatch of Draco's pubic hair, his stubble makes Draco's skin itch and burn. Potter's calloused, stubby fingers always dig into Draco's hips in a way that is just a tad too painful, just a little too rough, and purple-hued bruises bloom there on the following day. Draco wonders about those rounded little smears of greedy passion, looking like crushed flowers of lust that Potter charmed under his skin. 

Does Potter enjoy marking his body like this? To what purpose is he mapping Draco with his fingers, his teeth, and his tongue? 

What words is Potter trying to spell with needy bruises, some finger-shaped, some round like his insatiable mouth? 

Who lit the fire in this string of broken stone hearts which weeps magic and despair under Draco's scrutiny? 

What could possibly quench their thirst, if life and youth and happiness could not satisfy them, time and time again?

Frustrated, Draco puts the macabre necklace aside and drums his fingers on the wood of the desk. The Jewels of May are splayed wantonly on a strip of dark velvet, beckoning Draco to delve into their secrets. 

The secrets which, allegedly, got many a witch and wizard killed.

What should he do? The Jewels are cursed, that much is obvious to Draco. (Observation skills, experience, common sense – he has them all, and the verdict is unanimous. "Covet and perish," the Jewels scream.) But what now?

Should Draco try to find out who infused the beautiful, sleeping stones with dread and bloodlust? Pin the blame and reveal the truth? What good would it do, after so many centuries? What horrid, sealed doors would he be opening with this key?

He cannot know.

He watches the stones, and they return his hot gaze.

Should Draco try to crack the curse itself? What do the bloody stones _do_ , exactly? They could be sapping magic, they could be choking life. They could be spreading eternal gloom. They could be feeding on agitation. The possibilities are nearly endless, really. Do the Jewels of May cause death – or do they cause _something_ which, in turn, causes death? Ultimately, is there a difference?

And what difference will it make when Draco – _if_ Draco – finds out all the strange things that the necklace has done?

Well, he may discover what the curse is, or he may not. But either way, should Draco try to lift it? Ignorance is no obstacle to goodwill, after all; it is perfectly possible to disarm a dangerous artefact without knowing precisely the source and nature of the danger. But should Draco strip the necklace of its deadly heritage? It is that heritage which, dark and violent and veiled in mystery, makes the stones so precious. 

So what right does Draco have to stop the Jewels from being what they are?

Who would want them if they were no longer malevolent, no longer feared and hated?

Would anyone crave them on their own merits?

Once again, Draco spreads the Jewels of May on the soft velvet, giving the ornate clasp a lingering caress. They are wary of him, as they should be, but Draco is convinced they are not ready – or willing – to attack and destroy.

Perhaps they do not _like_ him, which is just as well, because Draco is quite sure they liked Hypsipyle, and look how that ended; they may not like him, but there is an affinity. 

Yes, there is a fragile understanding between them.

And Draco just cannot bring himself to give that up. The Jewels are in his hands now, and Draco knows all too well what it is like to be betrayed to do that to the necklace.

Yes, definitely, Potter is going to come, to investigate and stick his nose in things that are none of his business, as has always been his wont, but Draco cannot, he simply cannot throw the Jewels to the Aurors.

They will lock them up.

They will keep them in the dark.

They will leave them alone, in the cold, away from light and life; far away from people struggling to do better, transcending the limits and surviving more than they can bear. There will be no more meetings, no more necks to rest against, no more fingers to slip through; no more hope pouring through living and stone hearts.

No second chance at life.

Nothing.

No, it cannot happen.

Draco touches the stones, trying to calm them and dim their desperate shine. He can feel their hot thrumming in his fingertips.

They can start again. They _want_ to.

Draco can feel them wish for the same thing the whole wizarding world wished for. And if they all seized it, the Jewels deserve it, too.

A chance to start again. 

A new beginning.

A chance at redemption.

Neither Draco nor the Aurors, nor Severus despite all his brilliance, may ever find out the truth. What happened. What did the Jewels really do. 

All those times – time and time again – was it different, or was it all the same.

Was it about death? Or was it about life? Was it an act of cruelty, or an act of mercy? Was it even a choice?

But even if they are stone, the Jewels of May are living. Even if they have left death in their wake, even if they have dazzled and devoured – they need another chance at life.

They are beautiful. (And frightened.) They are timeless. (And proud.) This shall be a fresh start for them.

Draco gives the gleaming Jewels an encouraging smile, stroking them.

They will belong here. There are many beautiful things in this world, the world which is made of second chances.

Look, so many beautiful things.

There is ambition – and there is pride.

There is tradition – ancient, intricate, crumbling, beautiful – and there is decay, slowly and surely spreading through the daily lives of all and sundry in the magical world.

There is love – a strange, sometimes painful presence. Sometimes haunting, sometimes haunted. Love. It is complicated.

There is redemption, seeping through all the cracks in the rapidly shifting, changing world. Redemption is mingling with everything – ambitious career plans, lifestyle choices, feelings hidden and feelings expressed. 

Redemption is part of everything these days. (Everyone has lost. And everyone has won. Everyone wishes to atone.) Redemption is the universal yearning, the universal emotion.

Redemption illuminates this bleak, dull world.

The Jewels of May are going to have a new life, shining bright. This time, everything will be different. Draco knows, he is certain. They will not be stopped. He puts the Jewels of May around his neck and fastens the clasp, because if one cares about something or someone, there should be no boundaries between them. 

It is clear to him now. Draco feels healed. Whole. Alive.

The air is flushed with desire, tender with renewal.

Restoration. Resurrection.

It is not just starting all over again, it is beginning afresh.

And it will be different this time. Draco is different, and the world is different. What others think – what he thinks – will not stop him from doing what he longs to do. He will do the things which he believes are worth it. He feels young, but not in the way he was. No, this time it is a hot, liquid kind of energy running through his veins, power and possibilities humming in his every pore.

Draco is a young man, a man with a future ahead of him. A future he can shape. A destiny he can mould. Nothing is set in stone.

And Severus, too, is a young man.

And so is Harry.

No one has enshrined them. No one has doomed them to unwanted choices. There are no limits to what they can do, and there are no boundaries between them.

There is nothing but eternal spring, and life is its brightest jewel.


End file.
